


Fragile Things

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams never come true the way you want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile Things

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on August 12th, 2007.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.

Madrid had welcomed him with a slightly overcast sky, the azure somewhat dimmed and the sun hidden beneath a foggy veil; the perfect image of how he had felt – elated at the new beginning in a beautiful country, harsh and lush at the same time, the singing tilt of Spanish everywhere, lulling him into a sense of comfortable carefulness. He had ditched the masses of journalists waiting for him, but had acquiesced to the club's own reporting team and had delivered a good performance – at least, he hoped so – as the first German of the 21st century to play at Real. The curiosity and goodwill of the people would last at least until the first match, or even the second, but after that, he would be weighted and measured by his own accomplishments, not by his reputation as a German national player.

They omitted the 'h' from his name, too – Cristoph instead of Christoph, something he'd have to get used to, the Spanish spelling. He had heard about the nickname the German newspapers had given him when the soon to be confirmed rumor about him joining Real Madrid abounded: Don Metze. It sounded absurdly comical, reminding him of Don Quixote fighting the windmills with the faithful Sancho Pansa at his side, and he had laughed about it with Basti.

_Basti._

He had packed the photo album Basti had given him, securing it carefully by wrapping it into the softest and biggest towel he owned, not trusting the airport employees to handle his baggage carefully. He had looked at it again scant minutes before he had to leave; leafing through the stiff white pages and witnessing their friendship from the start to the – ending.

At least, this was what it felt like. An ending of sorts; it could be termed premature, but it also felt final in a way that he didn't want to admit to himself.

Because Basti had always been around whenever there was a challenge to be embarked upon – like the first World Cup, and then the second, and he had joined him at the BVB, too, and then there was RoterKeil, too, and the VdV, organizations that Christoph had persuaded Basti to join. He had known from the start that Basti possessed the same brand of humility and goodwill that his own parents had instilled in himself, too, and they also shared the same faith. It was what had drawn him to Basti in the first place besides the same wry and boyish sense of humor that had enabled them to strike up a fast and deep friendship, their differing personalities clicking effortlessly.

And more; but Christoph didn't want to think about it because it still hurt. Hurt deeply, the wound emblazoned on his heart, gaping open and spurting blood with every heartbeat. Maybe he would bleed out, and then there would be nothing left to feel, leaving behind only a shrunken shell. A life not worth living for, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

_"Promise me, Metze."_

Basti had said it, on the last evening that they had spent together, on Christoph's bed that was surrounded by cartons full with books and shoes and assorted prizes that he had received so far in his career. A warm arm slung around Christoph's chest, the head resting on his shoulder. Christoph had threaded his fingers through the sweaty strands, reveling in the way the short hair bristled against his palm.

He knew what Basti was asking for; knew it as much as he knew what made Basti moan and shudder and sigh. And he knew that Basti knew; and the smile that stole onto Basti's lips was just as bittersweet as his own.

And now he was here, alone, in the luxurious suite of the hotel that he was staying at until he could move to his new home. The bed was comfortable and at least big enough for half a dozen people, his fingers detecting the faint pattern weaved into the satin overthrow.

The suite was elegant in an understated and yet obvious way, exuding a sense of class and aloofness. If Basti were here, bounding through the rooms of the suite or flopping down on the leather couch in front of the huge flat TV, yelling at Christoph to haul his lazy ass over here or turning the stereo up, singing along and failing to hit every second tone – he wouldn't feel this disjointed, nor this awkward.

Because Basti was just Basti; and more – he was the anchor to Christoph's flights of fancy, the earth to his castles weaved out of air, keeping Christoph sane. When it seemed like his life was going to consist solely of rehab exercises and pitying glances and awkward questions, Basti had been there with a laugh and a well-placed joke, promising Christoph everything and anything with sideways glances and seemingly innocent touches, challenging him to go on and on, to meet every dare of his.

And now Christoph was here, at Real, facing the probably biggest challenge of his professional career so far and there was no Basti to keep his pace, to cheer him up or to deflate any bursts of mania or depression with well-placed jabs.

The phone call earlier hadn't done much to dissipate Christoph's longing for his best friend; hearing his voice wasn't just the same as seeing Basti in person. Touching him, kissing him, letting fingers trail down the heaving chest with his tongue following and licking around the hard nipples, listening to Basti's half-swallowed moans, feeling the fingers threading through his hair, cradling his skull almost reverentially, and…

Christoph shook his head; pining wouldn't do him any good, not when he was starting afresh, in a new country with a new language, with no one around who knew him, and maybe he could forget. Maybe his heart would bear a scar forever, the wound scabbed over, an ugly twisting line that told of past love, past joy and past friendship.

But Christoph wouldn't break his promise; the most important he had ever made.

_"I won't forget you. Ever."_

After all, it wasn't that impossible that he would survive. That they would survive, and the future would have a real ending in store for them. An ending that wouldn't be tinged with loss, sorrow or loneliness. It wouldn't be the perfect ending Christoph envisioned in lonesome nights, twisted in the sheets with yearning, but at least it would be something _real_.

And maybe this would be enough to keep him going, along with Basti's last words.

_"You're doing the right thing, Metze."_

Maybe.


End file.
